


a moonsbreath from your side

by simply_kelp



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kid Fic, Ned ships it, Pining, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, abuse of dramatic irony, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 22:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simply_kelp/pseuds/simply_kelp
Summary: Jon has spent nights and days thinking what it would be like to crown Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty himself, thinking of the kiss she’d given Robb and wondering what it might feel like if she pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.





	a moonsbreath from your side

**Author's Note:**

> confession time: I’ve only read the first few chapters of GoT and seen the first two seasons before I lost interest, but I accidentally followed a jonsa blog so I somehow ended up shipping these two and reading a shit ton of meta about them… so hopefully it’s in character... Mostly inspired by this meta (http://sansajons.tumblr.com/post/167240065282/a-hidden-and-forbidden-love) about Jon being in love with Sansa before they both left Winterfell. Title from "Samain Night" by Loreena McKennitt

Jon is just a wee thing as Old Nan would call him, all of four years old when he first lays eyes on her. She is swaddled in furs, held tight in Lady Catelyn’s arms, so small and beautiful Jon can hardly breathe. His half-sister. Sansa. Robb toddles over to Lady Catelyn and presses a soft kiss to Sansa’s cheek. Lady Catelyn beams at her two children and then at Jon’s Lord Father.

His father ruffles his hand through Jon’s hair and Jon tears his eyes away from his little sister, from Sansa, long enough to see that his father is smiling too. His hand leaves Jon’s hair as he steps closer to Lady Catelyn and her children. Jon does not join them. He knows he will feel the sting of Lady Catelyn’s glare if he advances.

Sansa shifts slightly, her eyes large and blue as a winter’s rose as they open and gaze skyward. Jon doesn’t think of pressing a kiss to Sansa’s rosy cheek or touching his fingers to her fire-red hair. He knows she is too precious and fragile for his common hands.

-

Sansa is six when Jon notices her watching their sparring practice. Robb’s wooden sword clacks against Jon’s. He’s barely aware of the practice sword falling from his hand, his eyes fixed on his little sister. She’s tucked herself into a little corner, looking as out of place in the training yard as John would feel in a knight’s livery. Her feet are hidden under the hem of her skirt which she has spread out in a neat half-circle before her. Her red hair rests on her shoulder in a thick braid. She holds a small hoop of cloth in her hands, but her curious eyes are fixed on him and Robb. _She looks like a queen_ , Jon thinks.

With great effort, he tears his eyes away from her and tries to focus on Ser Rodrick’s scolding. It’s not long before Jon catches sight of Septa Mordane bustling through the yard, her eyes searching. He resists the urge to glance back at Sansa, imagines a little grin twisting her lips upward. It’s only when he hears Septa Mordane call Sansa’s name so scandalized that he knows she’s been discovered, only then does he turn to look at her again.

She smooths the hem of her skirt and glances pleadingly at Robb, back still turned and sparring with Theon, then to Jon. Jon feels his heartbeat quicken under her glance. Septa Mordane crosses the training yard in the blink of an eye. She draws Sansa up and brushes the dirt from her dress. “No place for a young lady,” she says sternly. By now the clatter of practice swords has died and Jon knows without looking that Robb, Theon and Ser Rodrick are watching this little drama unfold.

Sansa lifts her head high, her chin jutting out and upward. “I only wanted to watch,” she says defiantly. “I need the practice for when I am a lady and I will meet a knight,” she explains

Septa Mordane’s expression softens slightly but she still takes Sansa’s free hand in hers. “There will be plenty of time when you’re older,” Septa Mordane says, leading a very reluctant Sansa from the training yard.

-

It’s Robb who suggests it. Jon had thought, had wished, but he hadn’t spoken. Even Theon who is nearly three years older than them and often has the air of thinking himself superior to Winterfell and its residents, agrees to it. He, like all of Winterfell, has a soft spot for Sansa.

So Theon drags a spare wicker chair to the training yard. Robb returns with Sansa on his arm, looking like a true lord and lady. Arya toddles after them, her hand clasped in Sansa’s, grey eyes wide. Robb helps Sansa into the wicker chair, “your throne,” he explains, and Arya clambers onto her lap.

They compete at archery first. Theon excels, as ever. His taller frame and longer limbs give him an edge. Sansa cheers for each of them in turn, the perfect little lady. Jon feels a fluttering sort of weightlessness in his belly as Sansa cheers for him. He strikes a bullseye and looks over to Sansa, tries to memorize the flush of her cheeks, the curve of her lips, the brightness of her eyes, all of it for him.

The sword fighting comes next. They take turns, first Robb and Theon, then Jon and Theon, then Robb and Jon. Arya and Sansa watch transfixed. The thought of winning Sansa’s favor encourages each of them, as do the gasps she breathes if one of them is hit and the cheers when one of them manages to look particularly heroic to her young eyes.

Of course it is Robb, Sansa’s trueborn brother, who has earned the most cheers, Robb who is declared the winner and Robb who crosses over to Sansa and crowns her the Queen of Love and Beauty with a gloved hand ruffling her red hair. Sansa lets Arya slide gently to the ground and rises on her tiptoes to place a soft kiss to Robb’s cheek. Jon feels his chest tighten, and for a split second he hates Robb, wishes he could be in Robb’s place accepting a kiss from their little sister.

-

Several weeks pass before Sansa begs them to hold another tournament for her. She smiles sweetly from Robb to Theon to Jon, calls them all brave knights though only Robb and Theon could ever really be knights if they wanted. Jon is the first to agree. His face warms at how quickly the words tumble from his mouth. He has spent nights and days thinking what it would be like to crown Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty himself, thinking of the kiss she’d given Robb and wondering what it might feel like if she pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.

Jon fetches the chair this time and sets it up at the edge of the training yard. Robb comes a few minutes after, Sansa's arm looped in his, her cheeks rosy and a wide smile on her face. She clutches a handful of winter roses and Jon notes that someone must have cut the thorns for her. Arya follows after them, a large stick clutched in her hands. Arya runs to Jon as Robb seats Sansa. She swings her stick like a little sword. “I’m a knight too,” she tells him.

Jon lets Arya hold his bow as Theon and Robb take their turns. She clutches the bow in one hand and her stick in the other, watching as Theon hits his mark. Sansa cheers them all on. Jon reclaims his bow when it is his turn, though Arya is reluctant to return it. His heart beats rabbit fast in his chest, but he breathes steady as he lines up his shot, thinks of Sansa pressing a kiss to his cheek, releases. His arrow strikes true and two more follow. He turns quickly to catch Sansa’s reaction, her blue eyes are wide, lips parted and upturned. Jon has tied with Theon.

Before they continue, Jon play fights with Arya. He could block her stick strikes easily, but he lets a few through to see her smile. She giggles and swings, striking the ground before him. When she’s breathless and giggling, Jon ruffles her hair and sends her to Sansa. Sansa smiles warmly at him before she pulls Arya onto her lap.

Jon is quick to win his match with Theon. Even though Theon is several years older and inches taller, Jon feels like a man possessed, driven by the thought of winning his lady’s favor. He deftly counters Theon’s strikes and manages to get a few hits of his own in until a particularly hard hit knocks Theon to the floor. Theon mutters a curse under his breath as he stands and fetches his sword. Sansa cheers for Jon, Arya having slipped off her lap and now swiping at the air with her stick.

Robb and Theon’s match is longer. Jon watches Sansa, her expression as beautiful in sorrow as in delight. One hand still clasps the winter roses while the fingers of her other hand are touched to her lips. She lets out a soft gasp as Robb is nearly knocked to the ground. How Jon wishes she would cry out like that for him. But the concern in her eyes turns to joy as Robb holds fast and advances on Theon. The wooden sword skitters from Theon’s hand and he is defeated.

Jon and Robb’s match comes last. Jon advances, striking at Robb who easily counters the blow. They continue, each countering the other’s attacks with ease. They are more evenly matched than with Theon, being nearly the same height and having been trained identically from the start. Jon thinks of the kiss Sansa will perhaps give him when he wins and it is nearly his undoing.

Robb strikes and Jon is barely able to parry, nearly falling to his knees. And that is when he hears it: the tiny gasp from Sansa, softer and sweeter than the one she gave Robb, though perhaps that is only because it is for Jon and not Robb. Between the two of them, she has always seemed to favor Robb. But now Jon pushes forward to a cheer from Sansa. It is the sweetest music he’s ever heard and it gives him the strength to land a hit on Robb so hard it knocks him to the ground. Sansa cheers again and Jon reaches down a hand to pull Robb up.

As if on instinct, Jon crosses the training yard and kneels before Sansa, placing his practice sword on the ground beside them so he can take one of the winter roses from her hand and place it in her hair. “For the Queen of Love and Beauty,” he whispers.

Sansa beams at him, her eyes sparkling like sapphires, as she leans forward to place a soft kiss to his cheek. It is sweeter than anything he’s ever known, the warmth of her lips on his skin. He stays frozen in place as she pulls away, basking in the glory of his lady’s favor. He knows he’s beaming too.

The moment is short-lived, as all good things are for Jon. Arya cries “Mama!” and Jon’s eyes dart from Sansa’s bright eyes to the scowling face of Lady Catelyn. Jon quickly rises, takes his sword in hand and puts several feet between himself and Sansa. Lady Catelyn’s eyes are like ice, her face pale in her fury. Jon feels his face heat under her glare. His Lord Father is at Lady Catelyn’s side, but he does not look angry. Jon can’t quite place the expression on his father’s face. It is recognition, sadness, realization, frustration. It is all of these things and none of them. Jon wishes he could hide from their eyes.

Lady Catelyn crosses the yard to Sansa and takes Sansa’s little hand in hers, nearly dragging her from the training yard. Confused tears stream down Sansa’s face as Lady Catelyn plucks the winter rose from Sansa’s hair and drops it at their Lord Father’s feet. Jon can’t see the look Lady Catelyn gives his father, but his father’s head ducks slightly and he casts his gaze from her.

-

Jon’s Lord Father leads him to the catacombs. They stop at his aunt Lyanna’s statue so that his father may light a candle for her. Jon avoids his father’s eyes and the eyes of the statue. He knows he’s in trouble, knows it was foolish of him to steal a kiss from Sansa when he is lowborn and half blood.

His father places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. The touch is gentle and Jon can’t help glancing up. His father sighs, casts his gaze around the catacombs as if he will find the words he wants to say among the bones of their ancestors. “You must understand,” he begins carefully, “Sansa is very precious to Lady Catelyn. As she is precious to you.”

His father’s eyes meet Jon’s and Jon feels his stomach drop. His Lord Father knows, if only Jon hadn’t been so _foolish_. “A daughther is…” his father pauses, glances to aunt Lyanna’s statue. “There are people in this world who would seek to harm Sansa, to use her for their advantage.” He sighs, his hand rests heavy on Jon’s shoulder. “Lady Catelyn sees thieves in shadows and she worries for her daughter.”

Jon doesn’t speak. His father continues, hesitant but warmer than Jon expects: “Some would say the gods look ill upon a brother who loves his sister too much,” he says carefully. He glances toward the statue of Jon’s aunt Lyanna then back at Jon, his eyes sad and solemn. “I think the gods will look into the heart of a man. Love can consume, but it can also protect.” His hand squeezes Jon’s shoulder gently. “I know you would do nothing to hurt Sansa.”

Jon knows why his Lord Father has taken him to this place, to the tomb of his aunt Lyanna. _It is a warning_ , he thinks. She was abducted and defiled by the Targaryen prince gone mad with lust. She died before Jon was born. The idea of the same happening to Sansa, by his hand or another sickens him. He would die before he hurt her. “Never,” he breathes.

His Lord Father smiles sadly. He looks much older than his years. “Were the world a different place…” he murmurs, almost to himself.

-

Sansa glides as if on air, dancing gracefully with an invisible partner. Jon tells himself that he should leave her in peace, but he seems to be rooted in this spot. Ghost walks past him to where Lady is lying on the stone floor watching Sansa. She looks to Ghost and he presses his nose to hers before curling up beside her.

Sansa pauses to stare at Lady and Ghost then glances back to the entrance of the great hall, her eyes resting on Jon. Jon’s stomach somersaults under her gaze. She smiles at him slightly. “Jon,” she says, his same sounding like a song from her lips. “Would you help me?”

“My lady?” Jon says dazedly.

A small frown graces her lips. “The King and Queen and Joffrey will be here in a few days’ time,” she says, voice just barely unsteady. “I don’t want to embarrass myself with Joffrey should he ask me to dance,” she explains. She glances down, her fingers smoothing imaginary creases in her dress. “Would you… maybe… dance with me?”

Sansa is the best dancer Jon’s seen. She’s nimble and beautiful and always smiles so brightly at her partners. Jon has always wished to dance with her. He should refuse though. He’s not very good and it wouldn’t be proper for her to dance with him, especially if she might be a prince’s betrothed. “Robb…?” he asks weakly.

Sansa sighs. “Robb has been busy with father all day,” she says. She looks at him hopefully.

Jon has noted how hard Sansa has been working for the King’s visit. She’s been glued to Lady Catelyn’s side, helping to fill their larders and get all the rooms prepared for guests, or else working her fingers to the bone with needle and thread. _She doesn’t need the practice_ , Jon thinks, _but she could use a distraction_. “All right,” Jon says. “I’ll dance with you.”

He crosses the hall and takes her hands in his. He is not as graceful as Sansa or her invisible partner, but he’s passable. Sansa hums a melody, her lips curved upward. Jon tries to memorize the feel of her against him. Her hands are soft.

“They say Queen Cersei is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa says idly. “And Jaime Lannister is supposed to be very handsome.” She twirls in Jon’s arms. “I hope Joffrey is handsome.”

Jon isn’t sure what to say so he hums an acknowledgement. He knows better than to say he hopes that Joffrey is so hideously ugly and unspeakably boring that their Lord Father calls off the betrothal in favor of a match much closer to home so she will not leave him. Jon knows better than to hope for that or to hope that he might prove a better match than the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. Their Lord Father may not have condemned his love for Sansa, but Jon is no Targaryen.

A minute passes and Sansa looks at him, eyes glassy with concern. “What if he doesn’t like me?” she asks, voice small and scared.

“He’d be a fool then,” Jon says. The words tumble out before he can think it through. They are true, but a part of him worries that he has given too much away.

Sansa presses close to him, her eyes spilling over with tears, but she is smiling, beaming up at him. “Do you really think so?” she asks wonderingly.

 _You’re a fine lady_ , he wants to say. _You are sweet and good and kind and beautiful. Joffrey is the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms to have you._ He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

Sansa wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. Jon allows himself a moment of weakness to return the embrace. It’s over too quickly, Sansa pulling away and wiping at her eyes. “Thank you, Jon.” She stands on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek. Jon’s face is warm. Sansa’s cheeks are rosy when she withdraws.

-

Their direwolves are huddled together, Ghost’s head pillowed on Lady’s neck. When Ghost is not at Jon’s side he will seek his sister out and is content to lie beside her. Of the six pups, it is Ghost and Lady who seem to have the closest bond. Jon tells himself this means nothing. Sometimes Sansa will run Lady’s brush through Ghost’s fur as she sings to the two pups and scratches around their ears.

“You will miss him,” he hears Sansa say as she strokes gently along Lady’s brow. Lady tilts her head upward to lean into the caress. Sansa glances up to see Jon hovering a few feet away. She smiles at him, eyes bright. She is radiant, so in love it stings.

The camp is packed, the horses saddled, Uncle Benjen is exchanging a few parting words with their Lord Father, distantly, Jon can hear his laughing. _This is the end_ , Jon thinks. He will go north and Sansa will go south, likely never to see each other again.

Sansa stands and smooths the skirt of her dress. Jon can hardly breathe. He glances down to Ghost and Lady then back to Sansa. Thirteen years is not enough time to memorize every smile, every word, every glance. _A lifetime would not be enough_ , he thinks. “You will be a fine queen,” he says. His voice sounds rough to his ears and the effort it takes to speak is almost more than he can bear.

She beams at him. It is her dream and he hopes that one day Joffrey might be worthy to share it with her. Jon must consciously breathe, knows that he would be giving everything away if she weren’t distracted by a haze of love. Her eyes are like stars. “Prince Joffrey and I will sleep soundly knowing that you and the rest of the Night’s Watch will be keeping us safe,” she says.

Jon spares one last moment to bask in her presence, the warmth of her love, even if it is not for him. His lips curve upward but he would not call it a smile. “Ghost,” he calls. Ghost whines and looks up at Jon pleadingly, but he rises. Lady rises too and presses her nose to Ghost’s. And like that they part ways.


End file.
